


Elgara Vallas

by Covenmouse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-01-21 12:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12458130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Covenmouse/pseuds/Covenmouse
Summary: Upon intercepting a fleeing band of grave robbers, a young elf finds herself drawn into a mysterious old ruin that will spell the end of her life, and the beginning of her next.[A canon-divergent AU rewrite of the Dalish Origin story.]





	1. Iras Ma Ghilas, da'len

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series of Origin rewrites (and hopefully more) planned from myself and a co-writer...who hasn't decided on her pseud, yet, and will be linked later. (I'm writing this one solo, anyway~) 
> 
> While we've stuck true to what we feel is the spirit of the games, we have heavily altered and/or expanded on events and lore, with a tendency to lean more in favor of what was originally written in DA:O's codex than the recent retcons. We're doing our best to provide details on what has been changed without purple prosing, but please don't hesitate to ask if something doesn't make sense.

Their camp was only a few days old when a band of humans came running headlong for its borders. It was impossible not to notice their approach; they ran like rampaging boars through the underbrush, slipping on damp moss and tripping over roots.  Their curses echoed further than any bird cry.  Nothing in their path seemed enough to stop them.  Nothing tried.

The men at the rear were the first to disappear; falling with short, unnoticed shouts into the shaking underbrush, never to reemerge.  Another stepped in just the wrong place, with only a second to gasp as a snare sent him sailing into the tree canopy.  

Then the pack leader plunged through the bracken covered forest floor.  That got attention.

Three last three men skid to a stop at the edge of the hole that had swallowed their friend.  They panted, eyes wide as deer as they stared down at the groaning man impaled below.  One turned, searching frantically for those who should have been behind them.  

“They herded us,” he gasped and swore, taking an unthinking step backward.  The leaves were dew-damp, and the loam around the hole was loose; no one caught him in time.  Two dying men stared upward, gasping for breath through punctured lungs.

A slight creak of wood was their only warning for what came next.   

One man’s head snapped up in time to see the arrow strike between his eyes.   He pitched forward, into the pit.  The other swore, fumbling at his belt for a knife.  His fingers were suddenly too thick, too clumsy, too useless...and the plume of feathers protruding from his throat didn’t much help.  He gurgled.  He stumbled.  He fell. 

The Brecilian was a strange sort of forest.  The woods were old, here; filled with things far more uncanny than men usually cared to brave.  Anywhere else in this world the spilling of blood would have signaled that things were, for the moment, safe again.  The hunters would be sated, and everything else could go about its business unmolested.  

Not here.  In the Brecilian, the tang of blood soaked loam was less often an ending.  The creatures who called the Brecilian home knew the sort of beginnings that sprang of blood on earth, so they remained silent and still and waiting for whatever might come next.

Trying not to feel stupid as the men they’d slain, two pieces of the forest segmented themselves from their surroundings to cautiously approach the pit neither of them had dug.  They belonged to the Brecilian as much as any of the birds or insects, but the forest would slay them all the same if they showed it the same disrespect as had these human men though they were not, either of them, human.

The shorter of the pair, whose bright blue eyes and pointed ears were the only parts of her visible through the cloth wrapped about her face and head, squatted at the edge of the pit to examine the three corpses lying within.  Her partner watched the wood around them, long ears twitching toward various, distant sounds as he waited for a trap to spring.

The pit was simple, but had been covered with expert camouflage and lined in deadly, rough-edged wooden spikes; that was worrisome.  The Dalish didn’t use pit traps often, and certainly not within this place.  Pit traps were difficult enough to mark without rendering them useless, and in a forest as mercurial as the Brecilian they could would backfire more often than not.  

Even so, the Dalish knew  _ how _ to make them.  There were still uses for pits, after all, when you were boxed in and planning to make a stand in other lands. If the trap was one of theirs, however unlikely, there would be tells in the way the spikes were laid, the tools used to make them, and the type of wood selected.     
  
“Not ours,” the girl announced after a moment.  Her voice was low and muffled by the heavy cloth, but her partner heard her well enough to nod. 

It hadn’t been a difficult conclusion for all she’d wanted otherwise.  The edges of the relatively shallow pit were rugged, dug by shovel instead of magic, and the spikes were fashioned of splintered, hatchet-hewn ashwood rather than harvested Sylvian spines.  And they were poisoned.  At least, she was fairly certain they were poisoned.  There was a dark, tarry substance staining a few of the spikes the humans hadn’t hit.  It wasn’t blood, that was for damned certain, and the smell wasn’t right for pitch.  Whatever it was, it was somehow remaining goopy without running or dripping. 

The Dalish weren’t above using poison—far from it—but she was familiar enough with the standards to know none of them were so blatantly obvious as this.  Besides, poison in a pit trap in the middle of nowhere was an overzealous waste.  

Reaching over, she plucked the arrow sprouting from the neck of the one man who’d managed not to fall to the spikes.  There was a gurgling noise and she paused, watching him...but, no. He wasn’t breathing; it was just air or gasses trapped in the wind pipe.  That was good, she thought.  Bandit or not, no living creature deserved to suffer a prolonged death.  

She wiped the arrow head carefully on her leggings, not wanting to slice the leather with the iron-bark tip, before reaching down to collect some of the gunk on the point.  Lifting it, the girl pulled the shawl away from her nose and sniffed.

She recoiled instantly, naked feet slipping on the leaves.  “Ginny!” her partner hissed, but she’d already dropped the arrow into the pit and caught herself with fistfuls of fern.  Scrambling backward, Gindryll Mahariel clambered to her feet and dusted the mud and detritus from her rear.  

“I’m fine,” she said to her partner, who was shaking his head at her.  “Oh that’s  _ foul _ , whatever it is.”  

“It’s a lost arrow.”   
  
“Stuff it, Tam.”  Gindryll looked about them again, at the still quiet wood.  Quiet enough she could just make out the muffled bleating of Halla from the camp a few kilometers through the trees.  And a whimpering, moaning voice calling from somewhere along the bandit’s broken path. 

“Looks something like pitch,” Tamlen observed.  He’d slung his bow back over his shoulders and sunk down to rifle through the last bandit’s clothing.  He grunted.  “No armor.”   
  
“How’s that?”  Turning from her observation of the woods, Gindryll eyed the fallen man.

She’d never been very good aging humans, but from the lines burrowed into his skin she thought he must have been getting on in years.  He was pallid and drawn, with hands calloused from hard labor, and—Tamlen was right—wasn’t wearing armor beneath his heavy, patched woolen cloak.  The only things he had, in fact, were a stained and dirty linen shirt, pants which had clearly been soiled long before his bowels had released, muddy boots, and a heavy satchel tied at his hip.  

Turning, Gindryll looked anew at the fallen corpses.  She’d been more focused on the trap itself than its victims.  

They were all like him; dirty peasants or grifters.  One had a short sword tucked into a leather belt, but if the others were armed it was impossible to tell from this distance.  There were, however, other satchels.  One had torn open on a spike, and something was protruding from it.  Something...made of clay?

“Help!” 

Both the elves turned, looking back along broken trail.  The voice echoed sharply through the trees.  It would call other things, nasty things...perhaps even the things that had left this trap.  But there would be time, yet, to talk to the sole survivor of this sorry lot.  

Tamlen grabbed the one satchel they could reach, tying it to his own belt before taking one of the corpse’s arms.  WIthout a word, Gindryll took the body’s other arm and together they hefted the man into the pit with his fellows before melting once again into the forest.

* * *

 

Erend Potterson had never considered himself a superstitious man.  Sure, he’d sat through his lessons with the Chantry sisters, learned the chants of the Maker and all that lot.  It was only right, as a God-fearing Ferelden, that he do these things, and he suspected there was  _ some  _ truth to them.  The Maker existed and Andraste was his wife; sure.  Demons, though?  

Surely magic should serve man, that was only right, but he’d most certainly never seen a demon.  He’d never met anyone who’d  _ seen _ a demon.  There were stories, he supposed; a friend of a cousin of a friend who’d been possessed that one time back when, and wasn’t that scary?  Yet every time someone went blathering about a ghost in their pantry it all turned out to be drafts and horseshit.  Most people in Denerim just nodded and smiled if they didn’t agree.  But when he’d moved from the bustling, forward-thinking capital out to Brecilian-surrounded Gwaren he’d learned to his chagrin that he was a minority among men.  

No one entered the Brecilian Forest, his fellow dockworkers had told him his first day.  

They’d caught him eyeing the darkness of the wood; the way the trees seemed to grow in every direction—up, sideways, diagonal, even circular, he’d swear—how the light seemed to vanish a few feet into the undergrowth until all that was left was a creeping, inky darkness...and they’d told him he’d be a fool to step even a toe into it.  No one who did ever lived long.

How, he’d wondered, could anyone grow up on the edge of such a place and never venture inside?  It was ridiculous.  Spooky or not, the trees were just trees and surely the locals had to hunt and gather firewood from somewhere.  Gwaren had been hewn from the forest itself; surely men had needed to go into the forest for that!

At first, no one had been willing to answer such questions; they just shook their heads and gave him disapproving looks.  Finally, though, over a few pints in what passed for the only tavern in town, someone tried:

“There’s spirits in those woods,” said a boy who wasn’t even properly in a beard yet.  He cast a nervous look toward the windows overlooking the forest beyond.  “Spirits and demons, like as not even the Templars care to take on.”

“I want real answers, not bedtime tales, boy,” Erend grumbled. 

“Lad’s tellin’ the truth.  You’d be wiser to pay mind,” put in the old sod at the end of the bar.  He waved a sloshing tankard at Erend.  “That place ate bigger and smarter city boys than you.”

Erend snorted and that seemed to be the end of the warnings.  At least, the explicit ones.  The longer Erend stayed in Gwaren, the more information dropped from the locals.  

He overheard a mother scolding her child, swearing the Dalish would come in the night to take him if he kept being naughty.  Those elves ate naughty human children, she pressed, when the lad declared that would be a fantastic adventure. 

A fresh newcomer fed into the superstition, and Erend was treated to a tavern full of dire proclamations and wild tales of walking trees; of strange, long-limbed creatures infesting the caves; of spiders the size of houses, and even dragons in the wood.  But the one story that stuck out to him, the one which most drew his interest, was a tale of a buried palace not that far from Gwaren itself.  

“Oh, aye,” said the barmaid who was merrily recounting the tale.  She swore it had happened to second cousin of hers, twice removed, who’d long since disappeared.  He’d been fool enough to go into the woods to hunt when times at the docks had fallen hard.  He’d even had some luck, at first—enough to convince himself to go deeper and deeper into the wood looking for the best game.

It was there he came upon a strange earthen spire jutting up from the forest floor like a particularly steep hill.  The sight was strange enough the cousin had been compelled to investigate.  “Weren’t a hill at all,” the barmaid recounted in a hushed whisper, “But a stone tower so encrusted with dirt the grass had started to grow up its side.”

A chill shot through Erend’s spine.  Everyone—even those in Denerim—knew there were old Elven ruins in the Brecilian.  Artifacts sold for a silver piece in the markets, if they were pretty enough.  He’d even heard some credible rumors that the more esoteric ones—the magic ones—could sell for greater among the nobles.  That was, they could if you were quick and brave enough to find them.

Suddenly, tales of Dalish in the area didn’t seem quite so ridiculous.  If they truly existed, if the stories of wild elves weren’t just fabricated by the Chantry as warnings against turning one’s back to the Maker, then it could be equally true they swarmed those places like bees to honey.  

Erend sat forward, intent on the barmaid’s story.

“He tried to get a peek inside, but realized he’d need a pickaxe to get through.  There didn’t seem to be no door!”  She tsked at that, the notion of building a tower with no access point.  Then she shrugged and set a fresh tankard down in front of Erend.  “He came back long enough to grab one.  Tried to get some lads to go with, back into the wood.  None that stupid, though.”

“And your cousin?”  he prompted.

“Marched off to his fortune, or so he thought.  Damn fool.  Never seen him again.”

That put a damper on Erend’s interest...for a while.  

Gwaren was a trade stop; a busy little town of no particular import but a place for sailors to dry themselves and keep their families, and tradesmen to work deals out from under the gaze of the king and his taxmen.  There were hulls to scrape and sails to mend and cargo to load on and off and on again.  

But the thought was insidious.  Erend had moved to Gwaren following the heels of a sailor, like many of those left here to port.  He’d dreamt of high seas adventures, swashbuckling and ale only to find the sea had less love of him than his sailor, in the end.  They were trying to work it out.  Between men there could be reason, understanding.  Between men and nature there was only domination, one way or the other.  

So the sea had rejected him.  So what?  There could be other adventures here in Gwaren.  Other reasons not to regret leaving culture and logic and home. Other reasons to return than the lover who may never come home to port. 

There could be a tower.  There could be more towers, and graves, and treasurers lurking in that great undiscovered wood.  

He couldn’t say which thought finally broke him.  He would never be able to look in Godric’s eyes and explain why he’d given in. But one day, sitting outside the home his love had only stepped foot in twice, now, in the three years they’d supposedly been living there, Erend decided it was a good day to take a walk.  And so he had.

It should have been alarming when he found the tower precisely where the barmaid had said, looking just as untouched as in her tales.  He should have realized there was a problem when he plucked a forgotten, half-rotted pickaxe from the grass as its base.  Should have, but did not.

Weeks passed, and with every trinket Erend brought forward from the crumbling edifice—a ring, a bracelet, a gold-bedecked cup—the locals’ objections waned ever more.  Eventually, a few of them broke.  They joined him on his excursions and Erend welcomed them for the extra manpower required to delve further into what seemed more and more like castle buried beneath the forest floor.  They would all be rich, they thought.  They would turn Gwaren into a thriving merchant town, and push back against their forest prison at long last.

Erend had never considered himself a superstitious man, and so ignored the suspicion of eyes upon the back of his head.

* * *

 

“Help!”  Erend’s desperate shout rung muted and hoarse through the trees all around him, obscured by the rustling of leaf and branch as he struggled for vestige of balance.  Balance he wasn’t likely to achieve, dangling by one very broken, very painful ankle.  

“Help,” he tried again, between gasps and sobs.  Erend held his arms out wide, like a swimmer treading water, and ever so slowly the pendulum-like swinging of the rope ebbed.  The great rustling quieted, and the only sound left was Erend’s whimpering.  

Taking great breaths, Erend tried to force the pain away from the forefront of his mind.  

He’d broken his arm once, as a lad.  The horse he and his father had been attempting to train had tossed him.  He’d crashed into a fence and felt the bone snap under pressure.  That, he’d thought, had been the worst pain he would ever feel.

He’d been wrong.

Now that he was more or less still, Erend could twist his neck to get a look beneath him...and immediately regretted it.  

“Maker,” he whimpered.  “Maker, please.”  

He wasn’t simply caught in a trap, dangling a few feet above the forest floor—oh no. He was dangling from a rope at least a hundred feet or more above the forest floor.  Falling would certainly kill him.  He’d be lucky if it killed him. 

In any other forest in Ferelden there would be no way for this trap to work.  Even if the trees were large enough to sustain his weight for long, most of their branches would be impossibly high for any trapper to reach, and the trunks straight and proud.  

But this wasn’t  _ any  _ forest; this was the Brecillian where the trees didn’t have the sense to grow as trees should.  Even at this altitude there were great crests of root wider round than a peasant’s hovel.  Similar branches dipped more sharply than a gabled roof, stretching nearly to the ground.  What Erend had never realized from down below was that the canopy of smaller branches all twisted together until, from above, there seemed a network of pathways one might take between them if one were light and careful. 

Erend was not “light” by any sense of the word; those pathways might well send him tumbling to his doom.  There was a large root or branch close enough, however, that if he could only swing over he might be able to catch it and gain some leverage.  He took a deep breath and used his arms to swing himself in that direction.  

A scream tore from his throat as an indefinable  _ something  _ inside his ankle seemed to give way.  He dropped an inch lower, feeling the strain pulling at his skin. An acrid taste flooded his mouth…

And then he was opening his eyes to find the world again right-side-up and perfectly still.

The pain, while present, wasn’t as all encompassing as it had been, thank the Maker, and the more he blinked, the more his blurry vision cleared.  But, as Erend got his bearings, he began to realize that while someone or something must have freed him from one predicament after he’d passed out, they had only put him into another.

A rope was tied around Erend’s middle and wrists, fixing him to the side of something covered in rough bark and damp moss—some part of a tree, clearly, though trunk, root, and branch were ridiculously interchangeable here.  

More importantly, there were two people watching him.  They were backed against light filtering in from a hole in the forest canopy, rendering them featureless while his eyes adjusted.  Most perplexing of all, they were speaking quietly to one another in some strange, lilting tongue that...was that Tevene? Orlesian?  He wasn’t familiar enough with either to be sure.

Sailors, he thought with a rush of elation quickly dampened by the preposterity of the idea. Tevene sailors weren’t unheard of this far south, but what would they be doing in the middle of the forest only he’d been brave enough to traverse?  What would  _ any  _ sailor being doing this far ashore? Or, for that matter, up in the trees?

Either the light shifted or one of them moved; it didn’t really matter which.  Erend’s breath caught as saw his death plain before him.

Their armor both did and did not match in a way akin to some pirates Godric had once introduced to him.  Most groups, like guards or mercenaries, they wanted armor that was also a uniform; a way to both proclaim their allegiances and make them otherwise indistinguishable on the battlefield.  Bandits, on the other hand, didn’t tend to match anything at all; they collected armor as certain crustaceans collected shells; if they found something that both fit and functioned, they were good.  

But pirates—oh, pirates were a tight knit lot far more regimented than most would believe, and more individualistic than the average mercenary band.   Their armor was always similar, the colours defining them as a group, but also custom tailored to their own preferences.  You could always find the pirate you wanted, if you were really looking.  

Each of this pair was adorned in mottled brown leather etched with a bark-like pattern broken by seemingly random patches of real moss. Though they both wore bracers, cops and a jerkin, none of the individual pieces matched each other in precise shape or design.  The edges of everything were all jagged and strange, overlapping unevenly.

What cloth Erend could see beneath the leather—and there wasn’t much—was the same shade of greyish green as the moss, and from their belts hung pieces of odd, thick-roped netting that draped around their leather-wrapped thighs and clung to quivers, painted green and yellow, at their hips. The netting was heavy with bits of the forest itself, leaves and small branches and more moss, until it became difficult to determine if they had any weapons beside the green-and-brown-fletched arrows.

Still more netting was draped around their shoulders, blending into the thick, brown and green cloths wrapped over their face and hair...but none of this hid their ears.  No.  It didn’t hide those ears at all. 

Dalish. 

They were myth, he kept trying to tell himself; myth and legend and old wives tales.  And yet, looking upon these two now, he hadn’t a single doubt what they were.  

The taller of the two produced a familiar satchel from somewhere in that wild tangle of netting, and dropped it onto the wood between Erend’s splayed legs.  It hit with a heavy clunk that seemed to echo in the strange silence of the forest.

They knew; they had to know...and there was no way he was getting out of this alive.

“Please,” Erend choked around the vice constraining his chest.  “Please don’t do this.” 

The shorter one sunk into a squat, meeting his gaze with large, unnaturally blue eyes.  She reached up and pulled the cloth down from around her head, revealing the twisting, unmistakable tattoos covering her entire face.  

Erend’s sobs choked off in horrified surprise.  Those tattoos were in the stories, too, but he had never believed they would be so...extensive.  The girl’s face had been bisected; one half was mostly bare, dark skin with a tracing of thorn-laden vines the color of dried blood...the other half was it’s precise relief, more blood-colored than skin.  Looking at her was difficult; his eyes kept jumping from one line to the next, never certain where to land. 

She tipped her head to one side, one ear cocking toward him just slightly as she asked in heavily accented King’s Tongue, “Yer from the village, aye?  East, by the salted water?”

He nodded once, wondering if his doom was about to be shared with those he’d left behind.  Wondering what would be left for his sailor to find.  “Gwaren?  Y-Yeah.  Yes, I am.  Please don’t hurt—”

“How long?” 

“I-I-I d-don’t…” he tried, stuttering with fear and with confusion.  How long since he’d been in the woods?  Since he’d found the tower?  Since he’d come to Gwaren?

The girl rolled her eyes in exaggerated impatience, then gestured off into the trees.  “How long till they come, shemlen?”  She paused, gaze narrowing as she relaxed back into her crouched stance.  “Or do ya think yer little party was enough to move us?” 

Hope, bleak and small but nonetheless  _ there _ , began to thaw Erend’s nerves; just a little.  The Dalish thought the people of Gwaren would come looking for him?  They were afraid.  As well they should be, though not of the villagers. 

He swallowed nervously, finally getting his emotions under some semblance of control, and tried to decide if the Dalish deserved a warning.  His gaze landed upon the satchel and finally, far too late, he’d begun to remember what had started this mess in the first place.  “W-where are the others?  I was with...I was with others…”

“Gone.”  

“You killed them?”

She tipped her head back to the other side, her tawny eyebrows raising just slightly.  Of course they had killed them, said that look, buried as it was beneath the twists and turns of her barbarous face.  That was what the Dalish did.  They hid in the dark places, the forgotten places, and they murdered any human who crossed their path without cause or reason.

Anger sparked deep in his gut, spilling renewed energy and bravado through his every fiber.  Erend squeezed his eyes shut, putting his head back against the bark and exposing his throat as he ground out, “Go ahead then!  Murder me, you knife-eared demon!  They’ll find our bodies.  They’ll come for you!” 

Godric might come for him.  If Erend hadn’t already shat himself sometime during his first or second black out, he would have done again.  Godric might shake the taboo of his people and brave this twisted hell-hole to find the lover who’d been such a self-aggrandising fool as to think he could tame it.  But he might not.  

Unsure of what he hoped for, Erend waited for the pain.  He waited for whatever would come next, be it oblivion or the welcoming light of the Maker.  He didn’t have to wait for long.

* * *

 

Millennia ago Thedas had belonged to the Elvhenan. Theirs had been an empire of magic and immortality, untouched by mortal hands and worries.  But that was then.  

Men had come, bringing their mortality with them.  The cities fell, the ruins were lost to the earth or reshaped so thoroughly by the invaders as to be unrecognizable.  

The children of the Elvhenan were enslaved for generations until one of their own had risen to free them.  They’d founded a new home for themselves, new ways and new traditions, only to be razed once again by the human men.  This time they’d been scattered; some locked away in human-controlled wards, others branded barbarians who roamed the wild lands beyond human civilization, said to murder all who dared come close.  The latter was not entirely untrue, though the rationale was quite different than many humans would believe. 

Ignoring the slight shake of her hand, Gindryll wiped her blade clean against her leathers before slipping it back into the sheath belted to her thigh.  She’d done it quick and easy, just slide beneath the jaw and up—the man wouldn’t have had time to think too hard, or feel too much.  Just like his companions in the forest below.  

Just like a deer, she told herself, but it wasn’t true.  Deer they killed for food and clothing.  The death was difficult, but it was necessary.  

No matter what stories the humans scared themselves with, the Dalish didn’t eat humans.  For that matter, they didn’t eat sentient creatures of any kind.  Nor would they use human bones or bits for anything particular.  Instead, these men would be meals for carrion eaters and whatever other nasty thing in the forest found interest in the scent of blood and offal. 

Still, this death was still necessary.  Once, Gindryll wouldn’t have believed it so.  She would have tried to convince this man to leave their forest and never return.  A part of her wished she could still be that child, that naive innocent who saw the best in everyone.  But they had ruined that on their own, hadn’t they?

“We might have got more information,” Tamlen chided as she stood, lofting the satchel he’d wanted her to ask about.  Now that they were alone again, he’d switched back to the comfort of their mother tongue.  Gindryll was glad.  Though they could both understand the King’s Tongue well enough, speaking it was a pain.  The words were harsh and jagged, Gindryll felt, and too slow to respond.  Others among the clan whose mastery was more complete swore those feelings would disappear if she’d only practice.  But Gindryll didn’t want to practice.  Not anymore.

She was still better with it than Tamlen, though, and so whenever they encountered non-Dalish—a sadly common occurrence anymore—she had become the pair’s spokeswoman. 

Gindryll shrugged off Tamlen’s grousing and led the way along the twisting network of branches.  They wouldn’t want to stay too long near the fresh corpses, though they would have to come back and check later.  Sometimes the dead liked to walk off a ways.  Such neighborly visitations were easy enough to handle, but better if they didn’t happen in the first place.  

As they walked, keeping a weather eye below to the path the humans had cut through the underbrush, Gindryll replied, “He knew we’d never let him go, and I won’t torture anyone.”

“I didn’t think we should,” Tamlen muttered.  Gindryll was grateful he didn’t argue with her conclusion about letting the man live.  No; Tamlen knew better, just as she did.  

It hurt, in a strange way.  Not because she had to kill someone—she’d taken her first human life when she much younger than sixteen.  Bandits were common in the places Dalish roamed, and they enjoyed all too much the chance to get their hands on some “knife-ear.”   Gindryll hadn’t been sorry then.  She wanted to believe she wasn’t sorry now. 

What  _ hurt  _ was giving their stories any credibility.  Every Dalish knew that human stories were what lost them the Dalish homeland in the first place: lies of blood magic and baby stealing and sacrifices to demons.  The stories humans told these days were much the same, they’d only added to them.   Among those tacked on was the Dalish preference for killing any human they came across.  That this story, at least, was founded in half-truths was a cold comfort. 

The thing was, Gindryll hated losing her people even more.  

“If they weren’t meaning to attack the camp,” Tamlen began slowly, “What were they doing?”

Gindryll spared him a glance, then one behind them.  The corpse, still bound to the tree, was visible through the tangle of leaves and bushes in their wake.  The corpse...and a strange shape looming over it, dark and shrouded and moving by twitches. 

Bringing her eyes forward, Gindryll shook her head at her partner.  He caught her meaning instantly, going silent until they were farther out of view. 

Beneath them, the trampled pathway crossed over a slick creekbed, up a shallow cliff and curved down the side of a gentle hill.  They continued following along, keeping an eye out for anything that might have inspired such a flight.  

“There was something in the others’ satchel,” Gindryll said when they’d gone far enough the feasting thing wasn’t likely to hear or have followed.  “Looked like pottery.”

Tamlen held a hand out as he crossed some branches near to her, and she tossed him the bag.  They slowed to a halt upon a sturdy cross-section as he opened it.  The weaker branches were able to hold them only so long as they moved quickly; they knew better than to stop for any length of time unless they were on stable footing. 

“Pottery indeed,” Tamlen sneered.  He drew an item out of the satchel and held it up for her to see.  

The limestone figurine was a bit worn around the edges, but recognizable: a robed woman, antlered and proud.  She stood with one hand held to shoulder height, her other parallel to the ground in a clearly symbolic pose.  Her hair was braided down her back, and though one ear had been broken off, the remaining one was clearly pointed.  

“Graverobbers,” Gindryll spat, feeling a good deal less sorry for the man.  That was the problem with humans.  They always believed they had a right to go anywhere they pleased and take anything they wanted.  If he had listened to the stories he’d so clearly believed in, he should have known better than to come into this forest and steal from the Elven dead. 

Tamlen nodded.  “There’s more,” he said needlessly, putting the figurine back before tying the satchel again to his belt.  “No one’s mentioned a ruin in the area.”

“We should get back,” Gindryll cut in.  Already she could sense the thoughts whirling about between his ears.  She didn’t much care for them.  “I doubt any of the villagers will be coming to find them, the way that one postured, but the Keeper should know—”

“Where they were finding these things,” Tamlen interjected.  He gestured behind them, toward the slaughter.  “And what they were running from.  Don’t forget that, Ginny.  They were fleeing something, and something set those traps.”

“You don’t know that.  The forest picks things up, sometimes. Just because the traps are here now doesn’t mean this is where they came from.”

“Aye,” Tamlen agreed, hesitantly, “But even if it that’s true—and I give you it could well be—they were still fleeing.  Maybe it’s nothing.  Maybe they upset a  _ varterral _ .  But maybe they didn’t, and they left a trail nearly to camp.”

That point Gindryll had to give.  She leaned to one side, looking over the edge of the massive branch to the forest below.  

_ Varterral  _ were rare creatures, even here, but they were best found around Elvehenan ruins.  Strange, spider-like creatures of rock and earth magic, the  _ varterral  _ rarely stepped foot outside whatever ruin they’d been created to protect, and they wouldn’t attack any elf except in self preservation.  If that was what these men were running from, the camp would be fine.  

However...

The trail was still easy to spot from up here, broken as it was through the otherwise dense underbrush.  It would probably be another day or two before forest obscured it again...assuming the forest didn’t rearrange itself, and that could never be counted on.  If the men had disturbed something else, one of the creatures not allied with the Dalish, that could spell a good lot of trouble.

“Fine,” Gindryll agreed.  “But if Vinell finds the corpses before we get back, this was your idea.”

* * *

 

The Dalish had been gone no more than five minutes; five minutes was long enough.   A Sylvian stood up, shook earth from its roots, and strode away with a disheveled skeleton still tied just above what passed for its gnarled, ancient face.  It didn’t much care for the indignity of having a corpse for jewelry, but it had lived through worse.  

A few minutes later, the soil where it had been began to shift like the sea; foliage sliding on top like boats bobbing along waves, until the place the Sylvian had been was once again time-smoothed earth.  

Any other day this would have been of little importance.  Any other day there might not have been a corpse-filled pit caught in the Sylvian’s wake.  All the evidence which remained were two half-buried bodies tangled deep in the brush, and a spreading circle of dead vegetation where a rancid poison had been absorbed into the earth.  

Eventually, Hahren Vinell would find the evidence of where her wayward Wood-Walkers had gone.  

Eventually, and much too late.


	2. Ara Ma'nedan Ashir

The Brecilian Forest was a relic; a living fossil of an older world, a less permanent world, where magic imbued the very soil like lifeblood.  There was a reason humanity fared poorly in the region, and similarly, a reason it was among the few places left where the descendants of the Elvhenan could live in relative peace.  Relative, for even though many of the things within the wood remembered and respected the legacy of the Elvhenan—better even than the elves themselves, in many cases—they were still unkind to any foolish enough to assume their own safety. 

Much is said about the foolishness of youth.  It’s a common held belief that no young thing every fully understands its own mortality.  Those who hold this belief are often unfamiliar with the chronically ill and impoverished.  Though Gindryll and Tamlen were young, yet, even for the Dalish, Gindryll would have said between them they’d seen enough of the dangers of this world not to make such assumptions.  It seemed in Tamlen’s case, she was wrong.

A tower jutted from the meadow like a knife from a man’s back.  Though encrusted with earth and overgrown with intermingled ivy and grass, there was no denying its artificial nature; the lines were too even, and crumbling stonework yet shown through the few places where the emerald shroud grew thin.  From their place in the trees above, the Dalish pair could even see a network of raised earth in the meadow surrounding it, like edges of a buried parapet.

There was something wrong about this place.  Gindryll knew it like she knew the weight of her bones and heat of her blood.  Ruins weren’t uncommon in the Brecililan, though like everything else they sometimes migrated by bits and pieces.  Usually, the ruins were a testament to the contrary nature of the forest; fragmented, scattered, and more or less indefinable in purpose.  

They were also fundamentally  _ different  _ from human architecture; as best as Gindryll could tell, anyway.  She’d only seen human castles from a distance, but whatever this was already seemed to have more in common with the red-stoned monolith near Lake Calenhad than the elegant arches, pillars, and open breezeways with which she was familiar.  

And then, of course, there was the blood.  

A hole had been knocked into the side of the tower, near what was—presumably—its base.  There were crates and tools set off to one side, in a small area that’d been cleared of the long grass otherwise choking the meadow.  A rude fire pit had been laid, and a pair of sorry-looking, half-fallen tents, pitched.  The humans had been set up here for a while; longer than Gindryll would have guessed.  

Judging by the amount of blood soaking into the soil, at least one of them had never left.  

“No drag marks,” Tamlen noted.

“No body,” Gindryll agreed.  She crouched low on the branch she’d chosen, automatically adjusting for sway as Tamlen continued moving a few paces down to get a better angle on the scene.  

“Clan Vidan didn’t say anything about a ruin in this area,” he was saying, eyes more for the tower itself than the evidence of slaughter.  “Is it possible they didn’t know?”

“We should tell the Keeper,” Gindryll insisted, shooting him a warning look.  “Something isn't right, Tam.  Do you hear the forest?"  It was achingly silent around them.  Nothing made a peep, save the rustle of trees.

"You and your forest," Tamlen muttered.  Before she could protest, he held a hand up, "I know it's a warning, but animals overreact sometimes.  Could be the shemlen scared them.  Could be there's wolves about.  Or cats.  Or any other manner of beastie.  Lookit that blood, Gin.  If a  _ vashedan  _ didn’t do that, I’ll eat my bow.”

Recalling the  _ vashedan _ —the silent person—they’d witnessed looming over the body of that man only a short while ago, Gindryll had to admit Tamlen had a point.   _ Vashedan  _ didn’t usually eat entire bodies—just the fleshy bits—but this was the Brecillian and corpses, even bare skeletons, wandered off on occasion.  From this height, they wouldn’t see the evidence of that.

Before she could respond, Tamlen added with a smarmy lilt to his voice, “You want to explain to Vinell why we came back early ‘cause 'the forest got spooky'?"

She didn't.  

Gindryll set her lips in a hard line, wishing Tamlen didn’t know her sore spots quite so well.  Hahren Vinell was nothing if not exacting in what she expected from her subordinates: silence, sense, and courage.  If they turned back now and there wasn't anything wrong with the ruin—other than human desecration—it could mark Gin as a coward.  Just her.  Tamlen had been in his  _ vallaslin  _ for three years now; he had proven his mettle.  Gindryll’s ink was, metaphorically, still drying.  

"Fine,” Gindryll ground through gritted teeth.  “We'll take a look.  But if I say we're leaving, we're leaving." 

Tamlen rolled his eyes, and flashed her a smirk before sliding down the nearest root to the forest floor.  Gindryll hurried after.

* * *

 

"Would you look at this place?"

They’d jumped over the worst of the blood splatter straight into the interior of the tower—best not to drag that sort of scent around—only to stop instantly.  

Time seemed to have barely touched the interior of the ruin. Gindryll supposed it had been sealed tight, right up until the humans had knocked in a wall.  There was brick dust and stone littering the ground in a wide sweep just inside the hole, but beyond was a room that could have been abandoned a week ago.  There was no evidence of weed or moss, no water leaking through cracks in the crumbling stone...not even a layer of dust.  Even the wooden furniture, which by all rights should have fallen to pieces centuries ago, was still in tact. 

Gindryll had no idea what the little, circular room may have been used for. There were a couple chairs against the far wall, a small table with spindly legs and little else.  It was possible the humans had already removed everything they’d considered remotely of value, and indications they’d attempted—unsuccessfully—to pry what looked like gemstones from the mosaic-tiled floor.  

The mosaic itself, beneath gathering dirt, muddy footprints, and blood was beautiful but innocuous; geometric patterns with little meaning to either elf.  

It was the smears of blood, leading toward a downward spiraling staircase to their right that grabbed Gindryll’s attention.  

“Tamlen,” she warned.  When he glanced her way, she gestured to the dark hole in the floor.  

Tamlen’s gaze raked over the marks, lips thinning to a line.  Whatever was down there, it was in pitch black.  Elves could see very well in low-light, but not in pitch black spaces.  Looking about, it wasn’t clear what the humans had been using to solve this problem.  Though there were tools just outside the entrance, they were all meant for bludgeoning—no torches or lanterns among them.  

Still, Tamlen took a step toward the stairs and again, Gindryll felt unnerved.  Before she object, he held his hand up before him, glowering at his palm.  There was a hesitation, like the air itself were somehow taking a breath, before a small flame sparked into existence, hovering a few finger-widths above Tamlen’s palm.  He flashed Gindryll a cheeky grin—like prespiration weren’t beading above his brow—and he jogged forward, down the stairs.

Gindryll rolled her eyes and followed.  

Tamlen had only a little magic; not enough to be considered a Keeper, but enough to manage a few small tricks here and there.  It was still more than Gindryll had ever possessed.  Despite her own father having been a mage—so she'd been told—she'd been born without a speck of the gift that once had been the birthright of all their kind.  Hers was not an uncommon fate these days.

Their clan, Sabrae, had been founded by Keeper Anthril.  Though Anthril had many children—so many that his bloodline was yet the backbone of the clan—none had possessed enough magic to qualify them for leadership.  Sabrae had been forced to import their last two Keepers, a trend for which there seemed no foreseeable end.  Their current Keeper and First had come from Clan Gislain and Clan Morinnan, respectively.  They had no Second.  

Gindryll knew Tamlen yet harbored hope his magic would strengthen with age; that he might one day be afforded the sort of education their clan could only spare for proper Keepers.

Tamlen was certain Gindryll was jealous.  He was entirely wrong, but that didn't stop him from trying to rub it in her face.  Brothers were like that, even adopted ones.

Tamlen's little light was more than enough to see by once their eyes adjusted.  As they descended the swirling steps, Gindryll kept her hand in easy reach of a dagger.  She tried to push aside the thought of  _ vashedan _ ; they weren’t inclined to linger in small, cramped spaces.  Tamlen knew this as well as she did.  Otherwise, she told herself, Tamlen surely wouldn’t be so alarmingly stupid as to go in here without proper backup.  She wouldn’t be so stupid as to follow.  Surely. 

The stairwell ended in a little room the same size and shape as its predecessor, and just as empty.  It wasn’t as immaculate, however; mostly due to what had been a window.  Now the window was a hole, through which spilled a good amount of dirt and exposed roots, laden with gossamer webs that twinkled in the firelight.  Gindryll shuddered, ears automatically tuned for the tell-tale scuttling of legs.  Brecilian spiders could range in size from pinpoint to bear, but unlike  _ vashedan _ , they could be killed.  It was a cold comfort. 

Three empty doorways branched off from this room, each taking a cardinal direction with one opposite the buried window.  Tamlen turned a moment, looking at each.  Gindryll looked at the floor.

The blood stains were lighter here.  They were still present though, and they led off through the door directly at the landing.  Tamlen caught her eye; his ear tipped toward the door and he made a quick sign with his free hand that, altogether, meant “should we follow?”

Gindryll frowned at him, looked to the other doorways, and cautiously nodded. 

Knowing what was in here with them was more important than any curiosity she may otherwise have felt.  There was still a chance it was a  _ varterral _ , she realized as Tamlen took the westward door without another word.   _ Varterral  _ were magical constructions called from the Fade itself, but they still needed to eat like anything else.  However, unlike  _ vashedan _ ,  _ varterral  _ hated sunlight.  It was hard to believe one would venture outside, even to kill intruders.

All thoughts of beasts and danger fled as they entered the next room.  

It was clearly a kitchen, with four large, clay and brick ovens lined against a long wall.  Counters lined the rest of the wallspace, save the exits at the east and west, and a heavy wooden table stood in the very middle.  What caught Gindryll’s eye, though, was the sheer wealth of  _ things _ .  

Bowls, utensils, cooking instruments and containers—each preserved exactly as they must have been whenever this place was properly above ground.  Most of the time the Dalish counted themselves lucky to find an intact vessel or figurine.  She’d never seen an entire roomful before.

Beside her, Tamlen seemed just as stunned.  “Why didn’t they take any of this?” he began, voice soft but booming in the unnatural silence. 

Stepping a little ways past him, Gindryll picked up one of the nearest bowls.  Again, here, there was no dust—nothing to mar the deceptively simple dish.  The colour was impossible to make out by firelight, but the design was evident without that detail.  Silhouettes of elves danced a circle around the dish, some with instruments, some with flowers, some dancing in trios and others, quartets.  The glaze on the bowl shone and in the flicker of Tamlen’s flame the painted dancers almost seemed to move.  

Gindryll put the bowl down carefully, looking about at the others.  The majority were clay and wood; the kind for use, not display.  “Wouldn’t interest them,” she replied.  “Most of it’s too common, isn’t it?” 

“Most of it,” Tamlen agreed.  He reached his free hand out to touch the bowl as though it were something precious; and it was, in its way.  True, it was no great artifact that would help them reclaim the lost glory of Elven history and, also true, they had plenty of their own dishes and artworks...but there was something wonderful in finding such innocuous proof of a age unmarred by Elven blood and tears and pain. 

Something rustled beyond the far door.  

Both elves went still, gazes and ears jerking toward the sound as they waited...waited...waited…

Nothing.  When the noise did not repeat after several minutes, they allowed themselves to breathe again. 

Tamlen made a sweeping gesture from the far door to the one they’d entered by.  Following it, Gindryll noticed what he must have—there was a trail of items knocked askew, leading from one end of the room to the other.  Shards of pottery had been trampled and a wooden tankard peeked from beneath a counter.   

It looked as though the graverobbers had been chased through the kitchen, though there wasn’t any sign of an assailant now.  

Damning herself for not having noticed before, Gindryll nodded to him. Together, they continued around the far side of the table, avoiding much of the detritus, and through the far door.

The ceiling of the next hallway expanded upward into a peaked arch.  Wooden shutters blocked windows on the outer wall to their right, while alcoves dotted the wall to their left.  Each dip held a small pedestal with a statue, not unlike the miniature found among the graverobber’s loot, though in much poorer condition.

“Nothing else was touched,” Tamlen muttered, frowning at the disembodied heads and smashed arms of the statues they passed.  

Gindryll’s heart thudded as they passed the fallen head of Elgar’nan.  It felt more like a warning than it possibly should have—despite Tamlen’s true statement, Gindryll had never seen nor heard of one of these larger statues surviving whatever had befallen these places.  Smashed by invaders or Elves who had lost their faith, she didn’t know.

Either way, she gestured to Tamlen for a pause, then bent to collect the god’s head from the floor.

Elgar’nan; All Father, first born of the sun and god of righteous vengeance. With one thumb, Gindryll carefully traced the thorny vines spread across his carved face.  Then she set his head at his feet, and nodded to Tamlen.

Something skittered at the far end of the hall; rock against tile.  They both snapped around to face it.  

Gindryll slipped a dagger from its sheath.  In such a confined space she'd have better luck with blade than arrow.  Besides, blades had always been her first choice. 

Tamlen lifted his palm higher, his fire growing just a touch brighter, so the light reached the far wall...

Nothing.  

Nothing but air and thick, oppressive silence. 

"Rats," said Tamlen.  He didn't sound very certain but he shook his head, let the fire dim again, and marched further down the hall.  

Gindryll stayed as she was a moment longer, eyes drawn back to the line of gods and goddesses.  She'd have loved to stay and examine them further—but there would be time for that later, when the clan had been informed of this place.  And who knew?  Perhaps they could restore them somehow.

Tamlen rounded the far corner, casting her again in near perfect darkness.  She hurried to catch up.  

The hall exited into a long, wide chamber set with a gargantuan table.  The remains of a feast were still laid upon it, evidence of rats scattered throughout.  Tamlen scoffed, glad to be proven right.  He picked a tiny rodent femur from among the desiccation, turning it over in his hand before tossing it back among the wreckage.  

There was more evidence of looting in this room.  Un-faded spots on the floor indicated where items had been carted away.  The walls—stuccoed and painted a dulled red with yellow trimming—were patch-worked with discoloration where paintings or tapestries had once hung.  

Four arched doorways, two to either side, were set into the walls at the near and far ends of the room.  Once again, signs of the graverobber's flight littered the room; skewed and scattered chairs and dishes marking a trail from the far, right-hand door into the hall of deities behind them. 

Tamlen began toward that door.  Part of Gindryll wanted to stop him.  She wanted to say this was enough.  They had come.  They had seen.  They had proven their bravery and willingness to ignore all signs of danger, which were clearly pointing toward something deeply wrong inside this tomb of a place.  Perhaps it was the way that things were laid out, as though whatever happened to the original occupants had happened all at once.  Perhaps, it had something to do with the ruined statues, or the blank eyes of Elgar’nan’s severed head boring into her own.

And the rest of her, the curiosity that was just as willing as Tamlen's to ignore good sense, kept her lips tightly pressed as she followed behind him.  He had the light, after all, and she wanted to know just how righteous she had been when she murdered those men. 

The next room was filled with little else but uncomfortable looking furniture.  More interesting was the far wall, composed entirely of empty archways leading into garden.  Above it was nothing but a dome of earth, as perfect as though it had been hewn from the ground itself.  And yet, somehow, the garden was still growing. The square space was lined with mosaic-tiled waterway, over which small bridges had been built to access a square choked with brilliant green grass and vibrant flowers.  

Rooms similar to the one they'd just passed through branched off each side of the garden; all had been stripped of purpose.  There wasn't any way to guess which direction the grave robbers had fled from—the tracks on the floor were too muddled by multiple trips to tell which direction was the most recent.  

"Dread wolf take them," Tamlen muttered, dragging his free hand over an empty table as he passed.  He was inspecting each room in turn, peeking through the doors into whatever laid beyond them to see if he might find a some sort  All he found were empty rooms—the robbers had been long at their work, it seemed. 

Gindryll stayed in the garden, watching the dark rooms as his light shifted the shadows into strange shapes. She frowned at the doorway across from them, squinting to see—

"Tam," she snapped.  He stopped, turning immediately to look as she drew her second dagger.  

Something had been at the door, she was certain of it.  Something had been there...and gone, the moment the light stopped moving.  

Heart thudding in her chest, Gindryll stepped cautiously around the garden toward the door.  Her ears twitched, catching no sound but her and Tamlen's breathing, her own footsteps, the crackle of fire.  

No. 

She froze again, ears straining forward.  Her breathing was the closest and light, Tamlen's distant and behind...and there was something panting, heavy and thick, just ahead.

Gindryll's eyes widened.  She took a single step backward.

A roar, loud enough to shake the foundations, blasted from the dark hallway.  Gindryll backpedaled as a creature lumbered forward, beady red eyes locked upon her.

It had been a bear, once.  Now it's fur was matted with the same sticky, dark substance that had coated the trap they’d found.  Chunks of fur had fallen out, taking the skin with them.  Maggot-filled meat writhed beneath, centering around a collection of long, bony spikes protruding like quills from the bear's back.  As the creature advanced, the stench of rot and blood hit Gindryll's senses with physical force. 

Gindryll's back thumped against the column of an archway; she stopped.  There was no where to go.  The bear was closer to the doorway they'd originally come through, and Tamlen had their only light. 

She expected the creature to charge across, but it stopped just past the archway on it's side, shaking its mangy head from side to side as though confused.  Whatever had been done to it, it seemed disoriented.  

A touch at her elbow sent Gindryll jumping. She had enough time to see Tamlen right behind her before the creature roared again, it's gaze locking on her once again.  It charged. 

Yelping, Gindryll dove one way and Tamlen the other.  The bear smashed headlong into the column with a sickening crack of bone and stone alike.  For a moment Gindryll thought it might have done itself in...Gindryll picked herself up into a crouch and heard, not saw, the creature getting to its feet and shaking the damage off.  The light had gone out.

"Tamlen?" she called, before she could think better. The creature grunted.  She heard the slap of it's paws on stone and dodged again, moving further into the garden.  Though she had a vague idea of the layout, already Gindryll was beginning to get turned about.  She didn't know where the archways were, and if she got caught in one of the antechambers or her ankle twisted in the water trough...

Firelight—Tamlen's nightshine eyes met hers from across the floral.  The bear whirled toward him. He backed away, into one of the antechambers.  

Tamlen cast a wild look around the room before his gaze settled on a piece of wooden furniture.  As the bear-thing began another charge, he shot his file-wielding palm toward the table and the room flared with light. Tamlen hooked one ankle around table-leg and kicked it toward the oncoming creature .  The bear stumbled backward, roaring in surprise as its fur sizzled. 

Without missing a beat, Tamlen lit another artifact, and another. The entire room was burning as he backed into the doorway behind himself. He was panting, the light in his hand fizzling out.  Gindryll's heart seemed to freeze in her chest, no matter the heat already rolling through the garden.  Tamlen had backed himself into a corner, and the creature was still advancing.

At least the fire seemed to hurt it.  

Quickly, Gindryll sheathed her daggers and drew her bow from its customary place around her chest.  She knocked three arrows in the time it took the creature to advance two more steps on her brother—who, damn him, still hadn't run.  The arrows buried in the creature's haunches.  It growled and moaned in annoyance and pain, fire sizzling in its fur.  

The stench of singed flesh joined the rot in heady harmony. 

Somehow, it didn't stop advancing.  Tamlen drew his bow in kind, knocked an arrow.  He screamed as the bear knocked the weapon from his arms, and backed into the darkness of the room beyond.  Gindryll cried out, loosing another arrow at the beast.  This one caught him in the shoulder.  The next sunk into its neck as it turned toward her. It gurgled, now, the best it could do for a roar.  She sunk an arrow into its knee, and the creature lumbered towards her.  

Fire bit into the creature's ears.  It didn't seem to notice.  As Gindryll knocked another arrow—down to three, down to only three—it picked up speed.  Another in its shoulder.

The plants that had survived so much began to sizzle and wilt as it trampled through.  Another arrow glanced off the bear’s spines, flying into the already-dying fire beyond.

With a frustrated snarl, the bear tripped over the trough, giving Gindryll enough time to back up, knocking her last arrow and take aim.

“RUN,” Tamlen screamed from somewhere in the dark.

Gindryll ignored him, her eyes meeting the creature's as it came closer, closer, closer.

The arrow shaft buried into it's right eye.  Black, black blood oozed down the creature's face as it slid and stumbled to the floor.  Its heavy paw landed on top her boot, the swollen, enlarged claws digging into the leather. 

Gindryll shook the creature off her, stepping to the side as she watched at it, waiting for it to move, waiting for life to flicker back into its remaining, blood-red eye.  But the light had gone out, the fire in its fur was fading into embers.  The only thing moving were maggots, desperately burrowing further into the meat, trying to escape the heat. 

"Tamlen." Gindryll barely recognized the gasping voice as her own.  It didn't matter.  She flew across the garden, not caring a whit has her bare feet found dying fires.  "Tamlen!"

Her brother was on his knees just on the other side of the doorway where he’d made his stand.  He clutched one arm, blood pooling up between his fingers.  

"Let me see," Gindryll demanded, falling to her knees beside him.  He shook his head, refusing to move his fingers from the wound until she glowered at him.  "Mythal's mercy, Tamlen, we have to get this clean." 

"With what?" Tamlen shook his head.  "A bit of elfroot and tainted water?  That—that thing went in the pool.  Not sure I'd trust that." 

Gindryll glanced behind herself at the remains of the garden.  It was smouldering, now.  By that dim light, she could still faintly make out the churning water.  The creature had sunk a paw into it, true.  Whether or not that was enough to foul the waters, she didn't know.  He was right, though; it wasn’t worth the risk.

"We have to get the leather off, at least.  It'll infect—"

"It's already done, Ginny," Tamlen snapped.  "I'll keep pressure on it.  Get a damned torch, already.  If we start now, we might make it back before nightfall."

He was right.  Gindryll knew he was right.  The bear's claws had already carried fibers into the wound; taking the ruined bracer off now wouldn't stop that.  It terrified her the armor had meant so little in the end, but the creature was dead.  They would have to come back—with more people—and find out what the hell had caused that...that abomination.  Demons didn’t do that...did they?

She stood, glancing about the room for something with enough unburned wood it might be safe to hold.  There wasn't anything, not in this room.

Gritting her teeth, she ran back through the embers to another of the rooms, wincing every time her foot landed on a smoldering coal.  She didn't stay still long enough to burn, not when her feet were already toughened by long years spent barefoot, but the singeing was more than enough reminder of what could happen if she paused.

She found a chair in the next room over, and smashed it against a wall until one leg came loose.  Brandishing it, she raced back—Tamlen was gone.

Gindryll stared at the doorway where he'd been, then around the garden.  "Tam?" she called, not quite daring to shout.  Not yet.  

For a moment she was afraid he wouldn't answer.  Maybe there had been another creature here. 

“Monsters,” the graverobber had said. Plural.

This was stupid.  This entire adventure had been so horrifically stupid.  She should have called them off the moment they saw the knocked over bowls, the moment they knew the danger was inside this damned place.  And she'd been too entranced by the beauty of it, the nearly unspoiled beauty, and sheer indignation that the humans had gotten here first, that she'd set her own instincts aside.  

The Keeper had been right.  She was far too young for this. 

"Ginny."  Tamlen's voice was distant and small, and coming from across the embers.  Her gaze focused on it, and now that she did she thought...she thought she could see a light.

"Tam?"  Hesitating again, Gindryll looked at the garden, and again to the empty doorway.  "Tamlen we have to go.  We're leaving.  I'm saying we're leaving.  You promised."

It was getting darker in the garden.  The fires were dying.  But the darker it became, the brighter seemed the room Tamlen had disappeared into. 

The light was white and yellow, shifting like water across the floor just past the open archway.  A shadow shaped like a man stretched into the distance, up a flight of stairs just past the embers and forgotten, broken bow where Tamlen had once been.  

"You have to see this," Tamlen called.  "It's so beautiful."

"Tamlen, you're hurt," she yelled back, voice shriller than she liked and laden with barely contained sobs.  She really wasn't any good at this.   She wasn't fit to wear these tattoos; not yet, maybe not ever if this is where it got them.  "I'll see it later, we have to go."

But Tamlen wasn't listening, and there was a sound now, like someone...humming.  Gindryll ignored the melody, focusing on her brother.  She took a step forward, and then one more.  Swallowing thickly, her sobs quickly morphed to anger as she snapped, "Dread wolf's mercy, Tamlen, get your ass out here!  Come on!"

She hissed as the ember she'd stepped on finally registered, hopped forward, and finally stalked into the room Tamlen was so entranced with.  When she was safe, she pulled her foot to her, hopping on the other for balance.  In the odd, yellow light it didn't seem to be too badly burned but when she tried to put weight on it, pain lanced up her leg. 

Muttering a few more oaths, Gindryll looked up...and froze.  

Tamlen was standing at the top of a short flight of stairs which spanned the width of the room.  There was no exit; none but the rectangular square set against the wall, towering up to meet the high ceiling.  It might have been a mirror, she thought, if not for the completely nonsensical scene emanating from within. 

Instead of reflecting the wall or her brother, there was a merry, yellow sky dotted with floating islands, vibrant with pink-leaved trees and sparkling waterfalls.  

Tamlen turned to face her, all pain seemingly forgotten.  Blood ran unchecked down his arm, dripping from his fingers to the floor.  

"There's a city," he said, his voice almost lost beneath the humming.  It was getting louder.  "I can see a city."

"Get away from that thing."  Gindryll hadn't realized she'd been moving toward him, but she found herself halfway up the stairs with no memory or intention of moving.  And now she, too, could see the city—it was close, just across a meadow of flowers and an expanse of naked air.  A breeze, warm and fragrant with pollen, drifted through the opening, inviting them to step inside. 

Tamlen's attention had turned back to it.  He took one step forward, bloody hand outstretched.  

"Don't," Gindryll said, weakly.  There was something wrong here, so drastically wrong, even though every particle of blood within her begged to do just the same as Tamlen.  She wanted to go there, this strange, beautiful place.  She wanted to play in the flowers and taste the water, and see what was beyond those city gates.  

She wanted to go home. 

One bloody finger brushed the pane.  

The scene vanished, everything within turning chartreuse. The islands were black and jagged, the ground covered in nettles and naked rock.  A lightning bolt lanced down the glass surface, expelling a frigid blast of air that knocked both elves flying.

Gindryll hit the floor with a shoulder, rolled, and screamed as her back met the wall.  

The last thing she remembered before her world dissolved into merciful nothingness were mangled feet approaching through dying embers, a waft of rot and bile, and Tamlen screaming her name into the dark.


	3. Dirthara lothlenan'as

"Maker's breath!" The voice was male, unfamiliar and swore like a human.  

Gindryll knew she should care about all those things, but she didn't.  She'd stopped caring hours, maybe days ago.  Time was not important either.  All that mattered was moving, inch by inch, toward the smell of fresh air and salvation.  Her gaze remained fixed to the ground beneath her nose, the brightening play of light upon the tile.  She kept crawling.

Footsteps jogged up behind her.  Gindryll scrabbled to move faster.

She didn't know why they'd left her there, the foul creatures that had found her and Tamlen lying like broken dolls.  They'd had their fun beating them both, testing their weapons, forcing foul liquids down her throat until she nearly drowned.  

And then they'd gone, and Tamlen was gone, and the sound of distant fighting filled the halls.  

She wanted to look for Tamlen.  She wanted her brother.  But it was her chance—maybe her only chance—to get away.  They'd beaten her feet so she couldn't walk, she couldn't run.  All she could do was crawl away, dragging her useless body through the soot and broken furniture, through the dirt and grime and darkness.  

She hadn't even been sure she was going the right way until she found this hall, felt a distant breeze and saw the faintest glow of daylight at the farthest end.

The man squatted beside her, setting a lit torch down just out of harm's way.  The flames sputtered against the stone, but they didn't go out.  

Gindryll flinched away when a hand touched her back, burying her face in the crook of one arm.  She'd nearly made it.  By the Gods, she'd nearly made it!  If she'd only gotten to the trees she knew she could stand up, she could make it home, find help—

The hand returned to her back, more firmly.  "Duncan, she's alive!"

The light grew brighter as more footsteps pounded closer.

"Do not touch me," Gindryll demanded.  Her voice was raspy, throat raw with screams.  The words were blanks in her mind the instant they left her lips.  She had no idea which language she'd used.  Either way, the man hadn't understood or simply didn't care.

"For now," said the newcomer, said "Duncan," over her protests.  He sounded weary, continuing, "She must be with the clan we saw the other day.  Their Keeper mentioned two missing scouts.  I'd hoped—Bring her.  I'll watch our rear."

"But—but, sir, she's—"

"I'm aware."

There was a momentary pause before two rough hands hooked beneath her armpits, hoisting her upright to face them.  Gindryll bucked and writhed—or, she tried to.  All she managed was a feeble wriggle before the strain was too much and she fell limp in his grip.  With nothing else left for her, Gindryll focused every last ounce of energy and hatred she had left into glaring up at the man.

Human, of course.  She'd known he would be.  He was also tall and broad, with dirty-blonde hair and a bit of scruff across his squared jaw.  He frowned at the look she gave him, before he bent to hoist her across his shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

"It's alright," the man assured her, "We're here to help."

But Gindryll—who had been awake too long, and suffered too much—was too far gone to hear him.

~~~

When next Gindryll woke, it was to a familiar, yet unfamiliar ceiling.  The ceiling clearly belonged to an aravel—that was the familiar part—but it was not the ceiling above her bunk in Ashalle's aravel.  These rafters were hung with a thousand kinds of dried herbs, lined with tightly packed books, and jammed full of cauldrons and pestles and other instruments Gindryll recognized but had little use for.

The Keeper's aravel, she decided, though she'd rarely had reason to visit inside, much less sleep there.  

Like a scab she couldn't help but scratch, thinking about the reason she might be here was enough to rip away her veil of disorientation.  Gindryll squeezed her eyes shut again, trying to wish back the innocent peace she'd had for a few, fleeting seconds.  It didn't work.

Someone gasped.  Cool hands felt at her face and forehead.  

"Ginny?"  Ashalle's whisper was painful to hear, full of hope and sorrow and—Mythal hear her—Gindryll did not want to face her guardian.  How could she?  

Tamlen was—

Tamlen was—

Tamlen—

"Please, Ginny, open your eyes," Ashalle pleaded.  One thumb stroked Gindryll's cheekbone as Ashalle took Ginny's hand with her free one.  A hint of terrible mirth stole into her voice as she chided, "I know when you're faking, child.  Come now.  It's time to meet the sun."

The words were so familiar, so kind and cruel that Gindryll could not stop the sob that choked into the air.  She rolled onto her side, away from the voice and careful hands, and pressed her palms over her eyes.  

Ashalle cooed ridiculous notes of concern and comfort.  She folded herself over the young woman's body—the girl's body, for Gindryll was really just a girl, wasn't she?  A stupid, silly girl who thought she could play at an adult's responsibilities years before her time.

"They haven't found him," Ashalle whispered into Gindryll's hair.  Her voice wobbled, but her tears were long since spent.  "But I'm so glad you're here.  I'm so glad."

Gindryll wanted to ask why.  She wanted Ashalle to demand explanation; to curse and scream and beat her.  

Tamlen was Ashalle's son by birth; her only living family left.  Gindryll was nothing; just the child her mother hadn't wanted and whose care Ashalle had been too kind to refuse.  Ashalle was always kind, even when she had every right not to be.

Gindryll brushed the tears hastily from her face, giving Ashalle time to rise before she sat up and looked around the little, one-room wagon.

Someone had changed her clothes.  Gindryll never wore armor to bed, except when they were on the run, so the removal of her leathers wasn't odd.  But her usual tunic and trews, old things which had been mended and darned a hundred times, had been replaced by what looked to be a new set entirely.  The tunic was brilliant green, trimmed in blue, and soft as fawn-fur, and the trews were dyed a pleasant, mottled yellow-green that would blend into most meadows in the fall and spring.  Though the cut was plain, the wealth and time they represented made her squirm.

"They were for your birthday," Ashalle said softly, one arm still tucked around Gindryll's shoulders. "Your old ones were—it wasn't safe to keep them."

Though Gindryll wanted to ask why it wasn't safe to keep a set of clothing, she wanted a little more not to have that question answered.  Part of her, the part that sung of weakness deep in her bones, already knew, and wanted to deny it a little longer.

Carefully, Gindryll pushed the blanket off her feet, already prepared for what she'd see.  But they looked....not fine, precisely.  When she pulled up her trews in bewilderment, she found pale-gold scars crisscrossing her dark skin where the creatures had cut and clawed at her. But they looked old, like the damage had been done years ago.  

"I'll get the Keeper," Ashalle said.  She kissed Gindryll's temple as she rose, and marched purposefully to the aravel door.  

Ashalle paused with the door half open, brilliant sunlight streaming in to highlight her strawberry red hair and the stag's antlers tattooed across her brow.  For a brief moment she seemed like she might say something, looking back to try and meet Gindryll’s eyes.  Her shoulders sagged when Gindryll refused to meet her gaze, and she shut the door behind herself without saying a word.  

~~~

Marethari had been the Keeper of Clan Sabrae for fifteen years.  She'd been a First far longer; eighty-seven years under Keeper Alain's tutelage…ninety-seven, total, if you counted the decade she'd spent as First to Clan Asaela.  

And not once, in all that time, had either Clan dared harbour humans in their camp.  Not once had they been asked to give away a clan member.

Though Marethari’s predecessors had claimed some human allies—specifically, the outcast tribes of the far south who were treated no better than the Dalish by their “civilized” neighbors—they had each drawn a fine line between meeting on neutral ground for trade, and inviting humans into their living space.

“I forget how young you are,” Keeper Alain had once sighed, when she’d questioned him one time too many. “You were born when the world had stilled.  We had already found and tamed this land, this...respite, far from human eyes and ears.”

Alain gestured to the cozy lodge around them; the heart of their winter homestead.  Though few paid any attention to their conversation, there were dozens of bodies packed into the space, filling it with warmth and sound. It was a far cry from the Clan she’d been born to, whose camp moved from day to day.

“Clan Telas was nomadic,” Marethari reminded him.

“They were.  Sometimes, I fear I took you from them too soon.”

He shook his head, sending the pitch-black braid of his hair tumbling over one thin shoulder.  “In many ways I’m glad you’ve never known what it is to flee a homestead; to leave behind everything you have worked and strived for; to find yourself with nothing but the clothes upon your back and the knowledge that if you stop running…”

He trailed off with another, wretched sigh.  

Marethari clasped her hands in her lap.  She wanted desperately to offer him comfort, but as always happened when the old ones spoke of these things, she had no idea how.  She knew, if she met Alain’s eyes, she would see the shroud of Halam’shiral still reflected in their depths.  She would not meet his eyes.

“I will not have humans in my homestead again.  Not while I have a _choice_.”

“But these are our allies.”

“Until they are not,” Alain snapped.  He winced, seeing the stricken set of her ears, and put a gentle hand upon her shoulder.  “Perhaps you are right, Mari.  Perhaps you are...but consider, please, that it is possible you are not, and the consequences that may come with trying.”

Marethari stopped asking after that.  It wasn’t that she agreed with Alain, but he was Clan Sabrae’s Keeper.  He had led them from Halam’Shiral, and so long as he lived he deserved the respect of her silence.  She could change things when the Clan was hers.

And, in some ways, she had.

After some consideration, Marethari had kept Alain’s rule concerning human visitors, but she had encouraged trade and conversation with _both_ the tribes and the Ferelden townsfolk.  She believed the more friendly the Dalish were with humans, the more the humans might leave them alone.  

Consequences, Alain had warned her.  And consequences there had been.

Despite everything, she had allowed these men into their camp. Though they had clearly come with the best intentions, the atmosphere of the Clan—already tainted—had worsened by the hour ever since.

The loss of two young Wood-Walkers didn’t help, nor did the Blight now spreading through the forest where they’d gone missing.  It seemed more and more like the Clan would be forced to flee yet another home, and Marethari knew not to what harbor they might turn.

A week before, Duncan and his men had appeared at the edge of camp, asking to speak with her.  Not by name, of course; they’d had no idea what Clan they’d found, much less who led it, but they were respectful enough in use of title that it was clear this “Duncan” had previous dealing with The People.  It was even possible that dealing hadn’t involved blades.

Duncan claimed his group were Grey Wardens.

Though human nations had no claim over the Dalish—at least, not according to The People themselves—that didn’t mean the Dalish were unaware of the goings on within those nations.  Wars, famine, civilian unrest; all of these things affected the Dalish just as much as any common folk.  

More, perhaps, by some perspectives.

Marethari remembered tales of the Grey Wardens from her childhood.  It was said the Wardens held no loyalty to any throne, were composed of outcasts, and were generally disliked by the population at large...not unlike the Dalish, in many ways.

Details of what happened were few, but Marethari knew one thing for certain: the Grey Wardens had been exiled from the lands called “Ferelden.”  Lands which included the Brecilian Forest, for all that the humans were terrified of the place.

Laws could always be circumvented, and people were notoriously difficult to bar from an entire country.  Still,  Duncan claimed his people were present with the King’s knowledge and blessing.  Either things had changed or he thought her a fool.  Either way, Marethari hadn’t bothered arguing.

Duncan was searching for something, he’d claimed.  Once he’d realized a Clan was nearby he’d decided it was best to make themselves known rather than to stumble across the Clan by accident and cause problems.  They did not want any trouble, and he promised they’d be on their way soon enough.

Though the _hahren_ weren’t happy with the notion, Marethari agreed and thanked Duncan for the courtesy.  At the time, she had been more concerned with their missing than these men...and, if she were being honest, Marethari expected the forest would be more than capable of eliminating the problem in its own way, should one arise.

It wasn’t until Duncan had returned, a man down and another carrying Gindryll’s prone body, that Marethari realized he’d been telling the truth.

“Respectfully, Madame Keeper, I don’t believe you understand the scope of our concern,” Duncan said once Gindryll was safely tucked away.   

“Nor do you understand ours,” Marethari insisted, as politely as she could.  They’d had this argument several times since the men had come back. Duncan was seeking something in the woods, all right. He was seeking recruits. “There’s no way to contact the Clans, and even if there were—where would you propose we’ve hidden this ‘Dalish army’?”

“I’m not asking for an army, Madame, simply—”

“Able bodied fighters that we do not _have_ to spare,” Marethari cut him off.

Duncan’s gaze raked over the camp, as though counting their numbers again.  He’d been with them three days. He surely must have noticed how few they were.  

Marethari didn’t dare show the sort of weakness implied by a sigh or closing of her eyes; she wished she could be something other than steady, stoic, and peaceful now.  Had this Duncan found them only a year earlier, perhaps her answer would have been different.  Perhaps she would have put this to the Clan, allowed their young to vent their anger and frustration on an enemy without friends and family to claim vengeance.  They’d been so many more, so much stronger, then.  They hadn’t needed to put children into _vallaslin_.

“The Darkspawn will come for us all,” Duncan prophesied, gaze dark and down as it met hers. “They won’t care how few you are.”

“We won’t _be here_ when they come, Warden.”

“You would run; leave us to deal with them on our own?  Again?”

It was a struggle for Marethari to remain impassive.  There were a million ways she could respond: that the Dales refusal during the last Blight had been compounded by many factors, that the humans had fared just fine on their own, that the Dalish who remained faced dangers every day by themselves...often those dangers were the very men Duncan was now asking them to fight beside.  None of these arguments would reach Duncan, though.  She knew that, and would not waste her breath or time.

“You already plan to take one of our own,” she reminded him.  “I’ve agreed to help you convince her.  Let that be enough.”

“Duncan?”

Grimacing, the Warden turned to the youngest of his lot, the tall fellow who’d carried Gindryll into camp.  He was pointing behind Marethari.

Sensing what drew their attention, the Keeper glanced over her shoulder to find Ashalle scurrying toward her.  Further behind the woman, the door of Marethari’s aravel swung open again.  Gindryll stepped gingerly down the wooden wagon steps, blinking owlishly in the sunlight.

"You'll excuse me," Marethari informed Duncan, giving him as polite a nod as she could manage.

Marethari had left Ashalle alone with her adoptive daughter on the condition that Marethari or Merrill, the Keeper’s First, be fetched immediately upon Gindryll’s waking.  The girl wasn’t supposed to have left the aravel.  She wasn’t supposed to come in sight of her so-called rescuers.

It didn't speak well of Ashalle's mental state that she either hadn’t noticed, or was choosing to ignore, Gindryll’s disobedience.  Typically, Ashalle’s awareness of her children's antics bordered on the unnatural.  

"Gin—" Ashalle began.  Marethari's hand upon her shoulder shushed the woman, who turned to watch as the Keeper passed.

"I know, da’len.  Thank you."

Gindryll was sitting on the aravel's steps by the time Marethari reached her, knuckles pale and anxious where she gripped the wooden plank.  Her eyes were on the ground, watching her bare toes grip and release the grass beneath them.  

"You should be resting," the Keeper gently chided in Common, hoping she would be properly understood.  She knew the girl’s grasp of Common, while passable, left much to be desired.  That would be a problem Gindryll was going to struggle with...and there was no help for it, now.

Unfortunately, the centuries old taboo against speaking Dalish where humans might hear was a strong one, and a rule Marethari was only willing to bend so far.  For all that the Grey Wardens were said to be above such “petty” things as species and politics, the group in their camp were human to a man.  Humans could be allies, from time to time, and Marethari was more willing than most to trust them that far—but they'd long proven themselves untrustworthy with certain matters.  

Gindryll shot her Keeper a flat look that would have made Marethari laugh any other time.  The girl barked back, in kind, "Rested a good bit, ain't I done?"

It wasn't perfect; it would have to do.  And, Marethari had to admit, it was good to see the past week hadn't killed Gindryll's spirit.  

"It's been three days," Marethari affirmed.  Gindryll's left ear flattened against her skull, the only sign of the girl's distress.  When she didn't say anything for several minutes, Marethari asked, "Do you remember what happened?"

Hard footsteps approached behind her, the sound of leather crushing the world beneath them.  Gindryll's gaze flicked behind Marethari, who didn't bother turning or allowing herself the relief of a sigh.  Duncan had a right to hear this, even if she wished he'd let them speak alone, first.  The girl's attention shot back to her Keeper, her mouth firmly closed.

Marethari had seen this reaction too many times in her lifetime.  She struggled to contain her exasperation; it wasn't the girl's fault she was allowing bitterness to override sense.  Gindryll was young, and theirs was a difficult life, but all this hatred and distrust was rarely helpful.  Especially with what was to come.

"It's alright, da’len."  Marethari gestured to the Grey Warden, who stepped just into the edge of her sight.  "This is Duncan.  He and his companions brought you home to us."

Again, Gindryll's gaze darted to the man, raking up and down the length of him.  Her expression remained implacable as stone, locked onto the Warden as she addressed her Keeper:

"Tamlen and I, we found a ruin in the wood.  Was a bear inside, what weren't a bear at all.  Covered in spikes, it was, and...its blood was all a-gummy and black, like it'd been dead awhile but hadn't the sense to stay put.  We…’killed it’, iffin’ you can call it that. Tamlen—" Here her voice hitched slightly.  Gindryll swallowed, gaze returning to the grass at her feet.  "Tamlen was hurt.  Bleeding a good bit.  Tried to get him to come home, I did, but he—"

She faltered again, licking her lips and biting them.  

"He what, da’len?"  Marethari prompted.

"They's a mirror," Gindryll whispered.  She glanced up once, and down again as her jaw set in a firm line.  "Lest, it was kin to such.  Tall as I ever seen, and it weren't right.  Not a bit.  Dinnit show Tamlen, nor I, but a demon trick, like, of pink skies and weird islands floating up the air."

Marethari pressed her lips together. From behind her, Duncan took a step forward so that they were side by side as they received Gindryll’s tale.

She sniffed, blinking rapidly.  "It were singing to us.  Witch call, like.  Made us come to it.  Wanted to, we did, and Tam—Tam, he—He touched it!” Grindryll’s voice cracked a sharp note.  “Everything went topside down.  Cracked my head.  Next I see, those things are on us. Could nae—I—Tam were—"

"Darkspawn," Duncan said as he watched the girl swallow thickly and squeeze her eyes shut.

He sank onto one knee, leaning toward the girl.  His gloved hand had barely grazed Gindryll's arm when she jerked away violently from him.  Her eyes snapped open, glowering at the man who'd dared touch her, as her right hand fumbled for a dagger that wasn't there.

"Gindryll," Marethari snapped.

"It's alright," Duncan said. He'd lifted his offending hand into a placating gesture, and bowed his head to the girl. "I apologize.  I shouldn't have touched you without asking."

He settled his arm upon his bent knee, and met her fierce gaze with his own.  Though she had relaxed—giving up the search for her absent weapon—the distrust rolling off Gindryll was palpable.

"Those creatures were Darkspawn,” he explained. “I know it's difficult, but I need to know what they did to you."  

Marethari was almost grateful Duncan was here, now; she would have had to ask the same, had he given her time.  She hadn’t wanted to ask at all.  However, she wasn’t entirely certain Gindryll would respond to him.  Nor did she appreciated his assumption of authority.

Gindryll’s gaze didn't softened a degree, but after a brief hesitation she did answer:

"Beat us, they did.  Cut us.  Hurt us bad enough we could nae run.  Made me drink..."  Her words trailed away as she shuddered, her gaze becoming unfocused.  "Might'a been blood, from...from the bear?  Looked like the same.  And smelt.  It tasted..."

Duncan nodded sadly.  He made to touch her shoulder and stopped before he could complete the gesture, folding his hand back to his knee.  "They were trying to turn you, make you one of them," he said slowly.  "I'm afraid they succeeded."

"What?" Gindryll all but shrieked.

Marethari did her best to keep her face neutral as Gindryll's gaze darted between them.  She scrambled backward a step, until her back bumped the aravel's closed door.  "I ain’t nae monster!"

"I slowed the poison," Marethari interjected before Duncan could make matters worse.  She approached Gindryll, settling herself on the bottom step and putting her hands atop Gindryll's folded knees.  

The girl might have recoiled from her, too, if there'd been space.  As it was, Gindryll pressed her shoulders more firmly into the wood and stared like a terrified doe, the whites clearly showing around the blue of her eyes.  

"I'm so sorry, da’len.  I cannot stop it.  No one can."

"That isn’t _quite_ true."  

Both women turned to the Warden, who was still steady upon his knee and watching Gindryll with interest.  

"There is a way, but I'm afraid you'll have to come with us."

“What’s he mean? Who’s us?”

The sheer terror in Gindryll’s question was enough even Duncan had to understand it, for all he seemed more statue than man.  Marethari squeezed Gindryll’s knees, hoping her presence would lend some amount of comfort.

“Duncan is with the Grey Wardens,” Marethari explained in a gentle voice. “Do you remember the stories of them, da’len?”

“No.”

This time, Marethari allowed herself the sigh.  It was entirely possible— _probable_ , even—that _Hahren_ Paivel, the clan’s primary teacher, hadn’t bothered to cover the Grey Wardens with more than a few sentences surrounding the Second Blight.  Why would he?  No one in their clan had seen a Grey Warden in centuries.  

She’d have to speak with him, when this was done.  

Despite every other thing the Warden had done, somehow Marethari had expected Duncan to show more sense than to bring it up _now_.  Perhaps he didn't realize what he was asking.  More likely, Marethari thought, Duncan simply believed his crusade was greater than a single person’s life, much less their feelings.  

“It is our sacred duty to fight the Darkspawn, wherever they appear,” Duncan explained.  “We are the hand that drives back the darkness.”

“Are you, then?” Gindryll’s voice was shrill with wretched, sour humor.

“I understand that must be hard for you to believe, after what you’ve been through.  I am sorry we didn’t arrive sooner.  But you have an opportunity, now, to help others.  To prevent them from going through what you have—or worse.”

Again, Gindryll looked to her Keeper.  Marethari fought to keep her composure beneath that wounded, penetrating stare.

“What’s he mean?”

"I mean,” answered Duncan as he rose again to his feet, “The Wardens always have a use for strong fighters; people of implacable willpower and determination.  I suspect you have both in spades, young miss."  

In case that wasn’t clear enough, Marethari added, “He’s offering you a place among them, da’len.  They want you to join their Order.”

For all that Marethari had expected this, her ears still laid back at the blunt refusal and venom in Gindryll’s resounding, “No!”

“Gindryll—” Duncan began, only to be silenced by another harsh look from the girl.

“I belong here,” Gindryll snapped. “Not out there.  Not with him!”  

“I’m afraid I must insist.”

That was too much; Marethari knew they’d gone too far. In one moment, Gindryll had whipped about to stare at the Warden, and in the next she was scrambling over Marethari and past the Warden into the freedom of the Clan.

“Let her go!” Marethari snapped, reaching out to catch the Warden before he could lay hands on Gindryll. “You’ve done enough damage.”

“Need I remind you—”

“No.”

Duncan rounded on Marethari, finger pointed at Gindryll’s wake through the gathering crowd of their people.  Behind him, many of the Clan held their weapons a trifle too casually.  Marethari waved a hand at them, signaling she was fine...and hoped it was true.

“That girl is a danger to your entire clan,” Duncan said, keeping his voice low and firm. His body belied his true feelings. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and his shoulders were hunched.

“A fact you have made abundantly clear,” Marethari replied, allowing a chill to creep into her tone.  It was one thing to be respectful to a man attempting to be polite, and quite another to show deference to one trying to throw his weight around. “I asked you to stay back while I spoke with her, which you ignored.  I gave you an opportunity to talk her around, which you have squandered.”

Ever so slowly, the Warden’s posture straightened and his hands unclenched. Carefully, Marethari said, “I’ll remind you once—Warden: we have allowed you hospitality under the banner of _peace_.”

“I am both grateful and honored, Keeper,” Duncan replied steadily.  “But you know as well as I the spread of this disease.  Your magics have contained it for now, but how much longer?  There are other beasts in this forest just as capable of tracking the girl as I am, and they will come for her before long.” He shook his head.  “The loyalty your people have for one another is commendable, but the girl will fare just fine with our company.  Surely, a single life isn’t worth endangering your entire Clan.”

This time, Marethari did sigh.  There were days, like this one, that she was ever so glad to be a mage.  Her joy wasn’t simply for the gift coursing through her veins, the luxury of education, or the pride she took in caring for her Clan—no, she was glad of it for the practice it gave her in self control.  

Whatever Marethari thought of the human Chantries and the way they controlled their mages, she had to give them this: they were right in their fear of demons hounding those with magical gifts.  They were right to fear those demons would use any and all tactics to gain a foothold in the mind of a mage, that one day they might assume the mage’s form like a cloak and wreak havoc upon the mortal world.  

Most days this was a nuisance at best and a curse at worst.  Currently, it was the only thing keeping her from rising to this man’s bait.

“Am I to understand the care of you organization would extend only until the girl is no longer useful, then?  Until her presence becomes a liability?”  Marethari arched one grey-threaded eyebrow at the man, accompanied by her most withering stare.  “I promise you, Warden, there are none in Thedas who won’t look at Gindryll and know her for what she is.  In the company of men, she will _always_ be a liability to you.”

Duncan shook his head.  “You mistake my meaning.  And, as I’ve said, once she dons the colours of the Grey Wardens—”

“Her ears will round, her tattoos disappear into the ether, the accent will drop from her lips, and she will Chant in the Sisters’ step.”

Once again, Duncan looked as though he wanted to snap.  He watched her, and she him, until—finally—he lifted a hand to rub at his brow.  “A Blight is coming, Madame Keeper—”

“And that is the only reason I have agreed to this,” she interrupted, coolly.  That, and the simple fact she had no desire to see another child die.  Duncan had no need of that information.  “If you continue to press the issue...we will have impasse on our hands.”

“The Right of Conscription states—”

“The laws of humans have no bearing here,” Marethari snapped.

Duncan looked back toward his group of men, most of whom were watching their little argument. They, as the Clan, had stilled their casual movements. They had not drawn weapons, but there was an alertness to them that was ready for battle. He nodded, and they each relaxed, returning to the business of cooking their own food and mending their own armor.  

The Grey Wardens were a motley crew, young and old, Marethari observed; skinny, and muscled, and round as harvest bears.  Their armor was uniform, silver and blue inlaid with designs of griffons—the signature of the Grey Wardens—but it was also well-worn and tired to a piece.  One man had stripped to his jerkin and was busy repairing a frayed strap on his breastplate.  All of this, Marethari thought, was a good sign.  Arrogant as their leader could be, overall they did not appear a spoiled, lofty group who held themselves above simple labor because their cause was "Just."

“As you say, Keeper.”

Then, to her surprise, Duncan bowed slightly to her.

“I’ll be sending a few men back to the ruins for a final sweep.  We believe we’ve found all of them, for now, but it’s best to be sure.”  Duncan paused, then added, “If she feels up to it, I’d appreciate the girl’s help in that.  She best knows what happened there.”

“I will speak with her.”

“Tell her to ask for Alistair, should she decide to come.  I won’t be accompanying them.”

Duncan inclined his head and shoulders toward her once more before marching himself back to their little section of camp.  

Marethari closed her eyes a moment, breathing deeply in and out, in and out, in and out…

When serenity found her again, she opened her eyes and went to find the girl.

~~~

Gindryll couldn't breathe.  Maybe it was the poison under her skin, the taint those creatures had left upon her but she didn't think so.  She wasn't much in the mood for thinking.  

Her chest was tight and hot, heaving as she tried desperately to get enough air into her lungs to sustain her.  No.  Enough air to let her _scream_.  

She'd never been one to scream and cry and wail over a little hardship—but this was not a little hardship, was it?  This was death, written large and bare across the darkness in her Keeper's eyes.  She'd been dead the moment they entered that forsaken ruin, it had just taken her mind a little while to catch up.  And each time she closed her eyes a rotted, oozing face loomed before her.  Heavy, stinking breath wafted hot against her face.  Vile liquid clogged her throat.  She was suffocating, drowning.  

Gindryl had gotten up without deciding to move, barreling from the Keeper and that awful man as fast as her stumbling, liquid legs could carry her. She barely made the treeline before losing the meager contents of her stomach.  

Murmurs sounded from the camp behind her, alarmed and worried.  Gindryll didn't know or care what they were saying.  All her concentration was fixated on purging the evil they'd forced into her, the _taint_ that had—that had—

Cool hands brushed her hair back from her face.  Gindryll flinched, and relaxed as the familiar voice of Ashalle began to coo at her again, much as she'd done in the aravel.

"Don't touch me," she managed to sputter in Dalish, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth and stepping away.  The mess she left was mostly acid—no sign of the...blood? the Darkspawn had made her swallow.  Whatever it had been, it had long since passed through her system.  It was already much too late.

“You aren’t contagious,” Ashalle assured her.  She came forward again, arms out.  Ginny backed off another step, and Ashalle stopped.

"You're sure of that?"

“I don’t think they’d have let me stay with you, if you were.”

“Not to the _touch_ ,” allowed the Keeper.  Ginny turned to find the woman behind her, watching them both as though she hadn’t been discussing giving Gindryll away like produce.  “Having said that, no one can risk touching your blood, I would think.  But the risk of your spreading the Taint is minimal, otherwise the Wardens never would have brought you back to us.”

 _Taint._  The word sent a shiver through Gindryll, who hadn't thought she'd guessed so accurately.  The Keeper said it like a title, not a descriptor.  "Would’ve killed me there, wouldn’t they?"

The Keeper fixed her with a look that said she was forgetting something obvious; Gindryll had always hated that look, and now it sent a spike of rage boiling.  She was almost grateful; rage was easier than sadness, and less likely to turn her into an embarrassing heap of useless self pity.  “Well?”

"As Duncan said, he wants you to join their Order.  Likely—"

“Join,” Gindryll spat the word, hating the human’s language even more in that moment than she ever had before, “You say that like I’d be their equal.  Like they wouldn’t have me in chains!”

“There would be no chains, da’lan,” Marethari said, like it were a promise. “You would be a member of their order.  An ally, or—”

Gindryll scoffed; a bitter, harsh sound that tasted like ash in her mouth.  “Like the humans at Quiet Creek were our allies? How’d that work out?”

“Ginny,” Ashalle protested, but weakly.

The Keeper’s ears laid back, though she did not try to defend herself.  It would have been pointless.

Behind the Keeper, visible over her shoulder, the meager sprawl of Clan Sabrae offered evidence enough what Marethari’s last deal with humans had cost them.  Though none had dared blame the Keeper to her face—not until now—it had been Marethari’s insistence on trading with the Ferelden village that landed them in the Brecillian, and seen over two-thirds of their clan killed.

“I understand your reluctance,” Marethari continued, “But Ginny...I cannot offer you what they can.”

“What’s that?” Ashalle asked, when it became clear Gindryll would not.

“A cure.”

“But—but you—” Ashalle stuttered.

“What I have done is slow the poison down,” Marethari explained.  “The magic I spent...I’m sorry, da’len.  I’m so sorry but I don’t have enough strength to take it from your system entirely.  Even with Merrill’s help, I’m not certain a full removal is even possible.”

Tears stung Gindryll’s eyes; grief and anger and sorrow in one.  Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for that strange weakness still tugging at her bones, she might not have believed what Marethari was saying.  But she knew, didn’t she?  On some strange, primal level she knew this was true.

After a spell of silence, Ashalle asked, “These ‘Grey Wardens’?  They have a cure?”

“They do.”  

“Then—Could we purchase it, perhaps?”  Ashalle wrung her hands before her, looking frantically between her Keeper and the distant forms of the Wardens about their campfire.  “Why must they _take_ her?”

“Those things,” Gindryll whispered.  She cleared her throat, but her voice remained dry and scratchy as she said more strongly, “The Darkspawn.  There’s more.  Is that right?”

“Yes, da’len,” said the Keeper.

“And they want me to—to fight them?”  Gindryll swallowed against her gorge once again.  She closed her eyes, and opened them immediately for fear of that awful, terrible visage behind them.  “I already—I can’t.  I can’t. I—”

This time, when Ashalle’s arms wrapped around her, Gindryll sank gratefully into the embrace she didn’t deserve.  The panic overtook her then, in a way that she was normally proof against. Over her racking sobs, she just barely managed to hear the Keeper say, “I’ll leave you be.  Ask her to find Merrill when she’s done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the lateness. My editor and I had a lot going on, and some kinks to work out in regards to our plans for the series, but hopefully ch4 won't be too far behind. This is the official halfway point!


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